


Turns Out Right

by AlzeahXei



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, M/M, Mates, Meddling OC Neighbors, Meet-Cute, Ridiculous Naming Sense, so many meddling neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlzeahXei/pseuds/AlzeahXei
Summary: Sometimes best intentions backfires; sometimes things just work out in the end.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm, wanna play spot the cameos?

The problem with small town bordered by trees and wild animals on conserved land by the state with a population of 30, 000 and reducing?

Is that everyone and their daffodils have apparently come to a mutual agreement that the sheriff’s sweet and precocious son, who had return from four years of college to open a secondhand bookstore/coffee shop in a corner lot in 5th Lake Falls Street, is not to be die a virgin. Or leave his father grandchild-less.

And thus, it has turned into everyone and their aunts’ heroic (re: personal) duty to rectify the situation by: 1. Obtaining his numbers through equivocal sources, 2. Call his numbers at all time and places (he barely saved his phone from suicide via urinal), and 3. Setting up blind dates regardless of his preferences or allergies. Or the fact he likes to have all limbs intact at the end of the date.

Someone’s daughter’s second removed cousin’s nephew’s two years apart granddaughter should never be let out of Eichen House. Unsupervised.

“Does nobody care anymore that my dad is still the sheriff for the next two years until reelection and I can get a restraining order just by pointing at someone?” Stiles sits behind the island and bangs his head, repeatedly, onto the hardwood surface. The coffee machine and cash register wisely offer him no comment.

“And their Chihuahuas? I don’t think so.” Danny Mahealani, one of the part time shop assistants, pipes out as he coordinates the latest stockpiles into the system.

“You’re the magician in the language of computer, Danny. Can I bribe you with brownies and you wave your magic wand and unleash Trojan and worms to whoever calls me with impure intentions?”

Danny’s jovial laughter echoes throughout the shop. It’s contagious and a sin for Stiles to continue sulking in its presence. “Stop trying to tempt me into evil with your brownies.” The young man with Hawaiian heritage pokes his head out. “Why don’t you tell them you’re just not interested? It’s no big deal to take a break once in a while from relationships.”

Stiles lifts his head and gives Danny’s grin a baleful look. “You think I didn’t tell them _that_ the first time Mrs. Simmons set me up with her grandnephew? You know what she said? ‘You’re young, Stiles. Don’t waste your libido and virility and live vicariously through porn, Stiles. Someday your juice will dry up and _not even_ the pills could help you, Stiles. _I know how that feels_.’” Stiles ends on high notes. Sopranos around the world are applauding him.

Danny’s lips wobble as he sucks in a lungful of air and clears his throat. “Well, now I know not to leave my boyfriend behind when I graduate. I’ll keep him on leash for at least two weeks before releasing him back to the wilds.”

“You suck, Mahealani. You suck so bad, like, like. Like pineapple not growing on tree.”

“Oh my–what is it with mainlanders and assuming pineapple grows on tree?”

“Most fruits come from trees–”

“Not grapes or watermelon.”

“ **Most**. Even coconut grows on tree–”

“It’s palm, actually.”

“–and have you ever seen the tough stalk at the bottom of pineapple? You can hold the damn thing and pass it on like an Olympic Torch relay. So sorry if we’re skeptical to see that fruit popping out of a thorny bush.”

Danny rolls his eyes as he resumes typing. “You’re impossible. How can you know platypus and echidna don’t have stomach, but not pineapple’s origin.”

“I have selective awareness.” Stiles says primly.

“More like stubborn ignorance.” The shop phone rings. Danny bites back a chuckle at his boss’ wretched groan before picking the handle up.

“He–Hi, Mrs. Chavez! No, no. I like spicy food, but that doesn’t mean I want my tongue to burn on Cheyenne. Yes. I know it’s a family recipe–”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

So, other than the infestation of zealous blind dates, Stiles’ life goes on pretty normal.

Well, as normal as one can be to be finding a bat on the window box, veiled under myriad-colored pansies, squeaking lethargically in protest at the impromptu bath Stiles is giving it.

Stiles jerks away the watering can and scoops the bat into his palms, eyes fixed as his mind flips through scrapbooks of extensive researches he had done to distract himself from projects with looming deadlines and final papers.

“You’re a megabat. Or more commonly known as fruit bat.” Stiles murmurs, settling the bat on the dining table and hunts for the jar of honey he kept for baking purposes. He found a teaspoon and pauses. “And it’s recorded that megabat is the species vampires mostly take form in. Are you a vampire?”

The bat arches a judging brow.

Feeling insulted and a little embarrassed, Stiles takes a seat and feeds the bat spoon by spoon of honey until a bulge is visible at where Stiles assumes the stomach is. He stares at the night sky beyond the window and back at the bat, sprawling belly up and appearing to doze off. “Does this mean you’re staying for the night?”

The bat doesn’t respond, other than quiet snores.

“Right. Right. Just you know, I have a baseball bat made of mountain ash and I’m very good at swinging it. In case, you know, you want late night supper and decide I’m the closest smoothie.”

The bat clicks its tongue.

In the morning, when Stiles wakes up with a bleary image of a bat sleeping inches away from his nose, he figures he might as well give the bat a name. It won’t do to be rude.

Now what name should he call a bat with a tuft of mane around its neck?

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“Stiles. There is a bat on your shoulder.”

“Danny, meet Fuzzbutt. Fuzzbutt, Danny is my assistant and the greatest gay guy you’ll ever meet. Don’t be rude to him. AND STOP BITING ME.”

“Stiles. You know it’s illegal to keep bat as a pet in Cali, right?”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Stiles has friends. And acquaintances. And a father, who is also the last remaining family for Stiles to equally hate and dote on.

Overall, Stiles has people, witnesses, to tell you that Stiles isn’t the type to let his temper rule his mind and soul. That, when faced with challenging obstacles and mind-boggling events, Stiles can go with the punch, strings the pieces and glues the cracks, and eventually comes to the conclusion with mind-blowing fireworks. As long as his mind keeps up with the right track, that is.

So, Stiles should not be held accountable when he finally snaps during one of the sheriff department cook off, when Mr. Cobb from two towns over introduces his fourteen years old daughter like a Regency debutante and the lacrosse field is Almack’s. Only with more bleachers and less roof.

Stiles merely grins with teeth in full view as he shakes Penelope’s hand (scandalous! Oh wait, this is the 21st century). Then, carrying that same manic grin he struts towards the small stage and claim a microphone. Quiet washes over the crowd as they follow the sheriff’s son every move, eyes wide and waiting. Stiles harrumphs and starts.

“Good inhabitants of Beacon Hills! And neighbors, let’s not forget you too. Hi! I’m Stiles, and most of you know me as Sheriff Stilinski’s charmingly cute son.” Dry laughter spreads indiscriminately. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to make a speech. I hate that too. Gets me constipated. I just here to say that I’m tremendously grateful to everyone who had, in these past months, tried to welcome me back to the community by keeping me busy with dates and hooking me up with every lonely souls. So, so many of them I can’t stop my head from spinning like that one ride on Thunderbolt. No, I’m not sharing. It’s a sordid past I’m taking to my grave.

“ANYWAY. Let it be known that I appreciate your efforts, but you can stop now.” Stiles lets silence stews until it wriggles for a release behind one of the shrubbery. “I mean it. Because I am seeing someone. And I’m not the type to cheat on my partner, by mistake or not.”

Silence returns with The Fuck?! and Is He Real. Then, “Why didn’t you mention anything to us, honey?” Mrs. Simmons hoots while shaking her cane. Her children have to tilt their body away to avoid assault.

“Uh. Because I don’t want to jinx myself? Like, you know, first trimester of pregnancy. Don’t tell everyone until you safely cross into second trimester. You get me right, Judy?” Bless her heart and the tiny alien inside her, Judy Lang, one of his father’s deputies, raises her cup of juice in agreement. “Pretty convinced this relationship is in for the long haul, and I really don’t want to mess anything up. Even my dad doesn’t know about it. Oh. Uh. Yaaay. Surprise?”

“What’s her name?” Someone from the sidelines shouts.

“HIS.” Oh fuck, why did he make an announcement without considering a name first? Shitshitshit _shit_. Where is Yoda when you need–oh. Right. He can probably use that. “His name is Derek.”

As one, eyes swerve towards Deputy Derek Myers, who is in the middle of cleaning off a wing. “Uhhh…”

“Not him! No offence, Deputy Myers, but my Derek is so much hotter and no one knows him because he’s not from here!”

“Ohhh.”

“So, since we’d clear everything up, stop sending girls and boys my way. Thank you and have a great day!” Stiles croons and leaves the stage. He caught his father’s eyes and nearly stumbles off the last step.

It’s a clear message behind his father’s grave stare that they will have a talk later. Stiles’ shoulders drop until he realizes that he’s still a carcass that vultures are circling around and round, ogling for any last piece of juicy information. So the wise man that he is decides to pick up the empty container (no crumbs left, even) and hightail out of there.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“So,” John plants himself on the couch, bottom sinking into worn leather, beer bottle rocking idly between his knees.

“So.”

John sighs and takes another sip, watching his son landing haphazardly beside him with arms full of bat and the slice of honey coated brownie it currently nibbling on. “I thought chocolate is a poison to bats.”

“No dad, that’s dogs.” Stiles dips his head. “But I think it’s best for me to check for bats too. Just in case.”

“Well, you’ll know soon enough when it gets explosive diarrhea.” Stiles’ face crinkles at the image in mind that has John chuckling. They watch Fuzzbutt licks the last morsel away before scaling to snuggle on Stiles’ shoulders. “So. Let’s stop postponing the inevitable and tell me about ‘Derek’, hmm.”

“Ugh.” Stiles sinks further into his father’s side, propping his head on sturdy shoulder. “Dad, you know I was under duress, and seriously, I’m shitting–”

“Language.”

“–with fear here. Do you know it’s possible to develop phobia towards ringing phones? I don’t mind meeting new friends, but I’m overwhelmed when they start talking about sharing spaces and do I want to get a proper house with front porch and adopt three dogs and a cat first? And don’t get me started on the mothers.” Stiles scrubs his face. “It’s like they want me out of your life right now so they could get into your business. And it’s not like I would mind if they have uniform and/or handcuff kinks and want to get into your pants–”

“Jesus. _Stiles_.”

“–we aren’t living together anymore since I got this shop with a complimentary apartment right above it. As long as you’re happy and safe, nothing else matters much to me.”

John wraps an arm around Stiles, brushing a kiss over his brown locks. Fuzzbutt perches on top of the crown and staring at them with flat brows. “Thank you. Your happiness matters to me too, son.” John is quiet for the next five seconds. “It sure is a boost to my ego knowing ladies want to climb me like Paul Newman.”

“Paul Newman? Really, dad, you can’t choose someone else?”

“Marlon Brando? Pierce Brosnan?”

Stiles’ body trembles as he buries his faces in between the back seat of the couch and his father’s bicep, not sure if muffled laughter is because of amusement or mortification. John finishes the last of his beer and sets the bottle on the low coffee table, no further plan in moving away. He spots the piles of movies under the T.V. “Hey, kid.” He nudges with an elbow and gets a rumbling hum in return. “Coneheads or George?”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Stiles’ life continues as usual. Or as usual as it can get, with the grape vine attaining a new gossip now, and Stiles is in the core of it. If they can’t get the bits from the father, might as well go for the source.

Whenever he can’t toss an immediate excuse to rip away from nosy inquiries, Stiles has to storm through his brain cells for something to throw them off trail. Like Derek’s from the Big Apple, but his job takes him out of state and around. Yes, they’re in a long distance relationship. No, Stiles won’t want him to drop everything just to visit him (and gives the town a free show). And he’s a grouch, like Jim Carrey’s Grinch. Heck, even their scowls can be mistaken as twin.

“And you’re fine with someone that…cold?” Ms. Jones wonders with concerns as she pays for her spicy chai latte.

“He’s not cold, not with me. He’s just reserved. I blame the city – secrets and thin walls and bad guys are the right recipe to keep a wall up in case someone stabs you in the back.”

“Ah. That makes sense.”

Ariadne, an undergrad architect and the other part time assistant sidles to his side the moment the door slides shut, leaning on her elbows while tucking a lock of hair away.

“Tell me more about Derek.”

Stiles groans and nudges her away, though she barely move an iota. Her shoes didn’t even squeak. “There is nothing to tell, Ari. You’d heard from Danny, I was desperate and I made him up.”

“I know.” Ariadne nods. “But Mr. Kaufman from next door bribed me to squeeze a few drops out of you. At least.”

“For what, appeasing his wife?”

“They’re fighting again. About the plumbing, this time.”

Stiles throws his hand up and stomps towards the shelves, rearranging the books by author this time. “They always have a disagreement about plumbing. I think it’s their alternate code for ‘late night wrestling’.” Ariadne giggles away while Stiles wrangles the hardcovers first before going for the lighter novels. “Is there even anything I can tell without exposing my lies?”

Ariadne considers a moment as she cleans the coffee machine. “You haven’t told us about his appearance. The color of his eyes and hair. Does he have high cheeks or square jaw? Was he in the mafia before and got a scar running down one side of his face and tattoos all over his body.”

Stiles huffs in humor. “You should have a buzzer warning you every time you’re overdosed on anime. Again.”

“Girl needs her dream, boss. And stop derailing this conversation. Come on, spill.”

Stiles gives her a chiding look, which has no problem bouncing off her in jiffy. “’Derek’ has…hazel eyes, the type that you can’t pinpoint if they have more green than blue or yellow. He can have a clean jaw, but with a five o’clock shadow? You won’t even want to blink. And he’s has a perpetual frown, kinda like a murderer with a ton of tragic past and nightmares. But when he smiles,” There is a picture suspended with string and batman insignia magnet on the fridge. “It’s a lost puzzle fitting right in. He is a home I never knew I needed.”

“Oh, Stiles.”

“I know, I know.” Stiles shrugs as he fits another book into a corner. “I’m the guy that spent four years in college only to open a secondhand bookshop in a small town in Middle of Nowhere. Somewhat sure that says something about me. In the not-so-nice way.”

Ariadne comes forward and gives him a crushing hug Stiles is sure to find bruises later. She clamps both hands on his shoulders and shakes him lightly. “That just means you’re the nearly-extinct kinds. It’s sad there is only so many left in this world and we can’t inbreed you.”

A choked laughter follows her as Ariadne dodges a smack. “Get back to work. I don’t pay you to stand here and be pretty.”

“No. You pay me just for my captivating personalities.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

It’s been a slow day – or as slow as it can be after the Caffeine-less Zombies Crush. It’s like killing off classy-dressed torpid corpses, only instead of plants, you use coffee (or for those with lesser tolerance, tea).

Is that game available for download anyway?

Fingers are waltzing over the screen to Past the Stargazing Season-Level Normal when the bell chimes. The moment he lifts his gaze up, Stiles swears his heart skipped a few beats.

Because Holy Mother of Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice, did a Greek God just enter his shop?

A Greek God that dons beanie and aviator, concealing half of his head – suspicious, yes – but Stiles is not about to discriminate against the muscles rippling under leather jacket and tight jeans, or the stubble heightening strong jaw. And in order to further enhance his manhood, the guy comes in with a Doberman.

He may have moaned (oh god please BE INSIDE HIS HEAD ONLY!).

Hottie McHubba-hubba comes to a halt, hand not leaving the handlebar. “Sorry, is pets not allowed?”

Stiles’ slack jaw closes with a click, one hand rubbing the corner of his mouth. You know, don’t want to be a slob in front of customer.

“No. No, it’s fine. My only rule is if your pet makes a mess, you have to stay back and clean it up. No emergency excuses whatsoever.”

Hottie flashes him a grin, and Stiles wants to melt like ice cream on fire. His throat is useless in forming words, but he tries. “N-Need my help?”

“It’s all right. I’ll just peruse around.”

“Okay. I’ll just be here. In case you want a drink.” Stiles finishes lamely. He can’t help it when his eyes have a mind of their own and fixated on Hottie’s ass. Aaand he should stop the creepy high school crush-turns-stalking act. So instead, he fixes his gaze on the Doberman. “Hey, can I pet your dog?”

Hottie’s head drops into an angle. “You aren’t wary of Doberman?”

“Not really. I know people tend to get misconception about Doberman, but if you don’t train him, her–”

“Him.”

Of course. “Him for police work or military, and I’m trusting you here that’s he’s appropriately socialized, I don’t think I’ll get maul the second I get into his sight.” Stiles comes to a stop two feet away to the side from the dog’s muzzle and doesn’t reach forward to touch or speak to him. He’s staring one of the shelves and listens to approaching sniffles, not moving even as the Doberman noses his shoes and khakis. When a wet nose taps and licks his wrist, Stiles gently slides to his knees, noting the dog’s relaxed jaw and reaches to gives light scratches between the shoulder and neck.

“You know the right steps to greet a dog.” If it isn’t for the quiet shop, Stiles doubt he could hear the tiny bit of fascination in Hottie’s voice.

Stiles let a small smile settle. “I have a friend who is a vet, and had been working at the clinic since he’s in high school. He’s the one that taught me dogs get scared around strangers too, especially in foreign spaces, since we human are three times taller and can be intimidatingly looming when face to face. Just because they’re sociable doesn’t mean dogs don’t have boundaries, and we should respect their No Means No rights. I’d get vicious too if some crazy person invade my personal bubble and starts yammering at me with baby talks.”

Hottie snorts, and who the fuck makes snorting an art? Seriously?

The bell jingles again, and this time it’s his father, who stopped a beat staring at them before resuming towards the counter, well-known sagging shoulders that told Stiles his dad just ended his shift and should be home sleeping, not–

“Can I have a triple shot Americano?”

Ordering for a dosage of caffeine.

“Go home and sleep, dad. I don’t need another zombie christening my shop.”

“Don’t you pity this zombie who’d just dug its way out of a graveyard shift?”

“No funny, dad. And just for that I’m giving you decaf.” Stiles ignores the miserable whine behind him as he prepares the drink. Hottie has disappeared among the rows of bookcases, while his Doberman approaches John for a back rub.

“I gave a ticket to Jiovanni today for speeding.” His dad begins. “And do you know what he’d asked me?”

“I have a feeling that I don’t want to know.”

“He asked if I needed to put my son in protective custody, since ‘Derek’ is a serial murderer on a psychotic break and as your dad and sheriff, I can abuse authority and get you the highest security from Secret Services.”

Stiles stares at the ceiling and takes deep breaths. “What is it with the tenacious people of this town and my ‘boyfriend’.”

“Must be something in the water.” John says sagely. “But you know it can’t last for long.”

Stiles sighs as he hands the cup to his dad, who cringes on the first sip. “Danny says he can get one of his friends on the act, but I can’t expect it to be free. And if push comes to shoving me off a cliff, I can, I don’t know, say we broke up or something.”

“It won’t be a rainstorm then; you’ll need to stock up for a tempest.”

“Please, please don’t remind me how crazy the people of this pitiful town can be.” Stiles reaches over the counter and pulls his dad for a customary hug. “Be safe, dad. I love you.”

“Love you too.” Stiles watches his dad leaves when Hottie enters his periphery sight, reminding him that he did have a customer around. “Hi! Found something?”

“Not really. Can you recommend me a fantasy-themed book? It’s my turn to do the reading this week.”

“Public reading?”

“Family.” Hottie rolls his shoulder as Stiles joins him. “Nothing too complicated. My audiences range from five to fifteen, and more than half are girls.”

“Nothing too gruesome, then.” Hottie grunts while Stiles scans through each layer for the suitable book. He nearly leaps out of his skin when hot breath blooms on the nape of his neck, followed by the tip of nose trailing to the back of his ear, rustling through hair along the way, the aviator frame a cold spot on the shell of his ear. Wait. WAIT. No stranger does this on their first meeting, right? Unless he’s a creepy pervert or Stiles is the twink in porn. And Stiles does not want his porn debut to be in between ratty old bookcases with dust bunnies as decoration.

That’s not sexy at all!

Hottie lets out a growl not possibly made from human larynx and right. Hottie isn’t a creepy pervert and Stiles isn’t in porn.

Hottie McHubba-hubba is a Werewolf. That’s all.

Is it too late to pray now that Hottie can’t smell his growing erection?

“SO.” Stiles turns and plasters his back to the shelves, the book in between them. Hottie looks stoned, and Stiles isn’t that bigheaded to assume that his scent is coke to Were’s noses. “Read Reckless before?”

Hottie shakes his head, and Stiles like to think it’s a gesture to state negative, rather than the alternative of clearing his head.

“It’s the same author from Inkheart. Have you seen the movie? It’s okay if you haven’t, because these two aren’t related in material anyway. Only in author, like having one grandmother and a lot of fathers. Aand that sounds so wrong, sorry! Moving on, Reckless is kinda like Grimm stories – there is a darker side to fairy tales, and unicorns don’t fart cupcakes and rainbows. Hero saves the day – well, kind of – with a price. At least he doesn’t whine about it, which, plus point! And he has a cute girlfriend who can shift into fox. Loads of plot holes you can’t help tripping over and into, but overall a good read.”

Hottie’s caterpillar brows have vanished behind the beanie. Three beats later and the corner of his stupidly perfect lips twitches, and a flood of laughter comes pouring through, filling a part of Stiles to the brim with warmth and delight and affection. He’s cheating on ‘Derek’ already, because he’s falling in love with Hottie’s laughter. And the twinge in his heart isn’t from guilt either.

“I’ll take it,” Hottie says between chuckles.

“Hope it’s agreeable to your family’s appetite,” Stiles hands him the book after putting away the payment. “If not, you can come back and get half your money back.”

Or you can come back for me.

Hottie doesn’t take the book first. No, he wraps his fingers around a wrist and bows his head to lick a hot stripe along visible veins. Beats drum witlessly under skin, and Stiles is sure his face is as red as dragonfruit.

“Maybe I’ll come back for more.” Hottie gives him an insufferable smirk, and Stiles struggles with the urge to punch or kiss him.

“Maybe you’ll do.” Thank god his mouth can move on autopilot when his mind is out of service.

His eyes stay on Hottie’s impeccable frame (ass) until the door shuts him away from the outside world.

Hubba hubba indeed.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“I like to think I’m the type that stays faithful to my lover and anti-infidelity. But you can’t believe me to stay devoted to my fictional ‘Derek’ when there is a real Hottie flirting with me, right?”

Fuzzbutt continues to demolish honey-soaked pancakes with berries on sidelines, sticky gold staining his mouth and dripping down his mane.

“And Hottie like my scent. He got high on my scent. Maybe. Probably. Still, it’s one of the deciding factors for Werewolf while choosing a partner, whether for a one night stand or for the long run. Scotty told me about it, multiple times, in several different occasions, and I think I can believe the studies on line. It’s from Columbia, so it’s must be legitimate to a certain degree.”

Fuzzbutt licks his right claw first, grooming meticulously like a cat.

“And why now? If he comes by earlier I won’t have to secretly date ‘Derek’. I can have an open relationship with Hottie and no one will suspect I have schizophrenia. Serial Killer on the loose or Leather on Hot Bike. How is this my life?”

Fuzzbutt burps and flies back to bed.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Stiles has a week long debate with Fuzzbutt on whether he should break it off with ‘Derek’. Fuzzbutt’s advices offered nothing worthwhile.

“I’m off to break!” Ariadne waves her phone as she saunters to the door. The fuzzy bold title ‘ **–Hale filming in remote–** ’ from the entertainment site she frequented gawks back at him.

Stiles has the shop all to himself for an hour before the bell splinters the silence and in comes–oh wow.

What is it with the Sculptured Gods descending to this inferior altar only after the whole Date Fiasco? Can’t they show this poor mortal mercy earlier?

“Hi,” Delectable Soufflé greets with mesmerizing accent; each step crossing the threshold is taken with confidence, even with hesitation doing flamingo around chocolate irises. “I was told to come here if I need books with better…guidance?”

“Yeah,” The voice that came out is a pitch too high. Stiles swallows with an awkward grin and tries again. “I mean, yes. All the books here have previous owners. Never know what you’ll find between the lines and around the margins. Not all are polite words or child-proof doodles, just a fair warning. I once found Wimpy’s Tijuana bible between the pages of Pippi Longstocking, never read the book same way since.”

If only Stiles could bottle up laughter, he’d ascend to nirvana every night just listening on loop to Hottie and Soufflé’s.

“S-Sorry,” Soufflé hiccups. “I, I’d like to have a book that mentions cat’s behavior?”

“We have that,” Stiles nods and leads them towards the recreational side of the shop. “Is it for research or you just got one waiting for you at home?”

“More like followed me home, sheds fur all over my favorite armchair and refuse to leave me alone.” Fingers rakes through dark locks. “And apparently not knowing which kind of food will result in me cleaning up after his diarrhea later. Sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to hear this–”

“Hey, no! It’s fine. I tend to ramble when I’m stressed out too…are you?”

Soufflé shrugs as his finger traces along the row of books, dipping high and low. “I don’t know. Maybe I am. A new job, new home, new ‘pet’. It’s a little overwhelming, to be truthful.”

“Demanding job?”

“I’m a new transfer to BHFD.”

Yeeaaah, Stiles doesn’t need the extra wanking material with glistering muscles in tight suit, especially to Mr. October. He would chafe the skin and it’s uncomfortable under boxer briefs. “Chief Sam’s my dad’s old pal. You’ll be under good hands. And once the good things start rolling, I’m sure you’ll sort out everything else soon.” Stiles pulls out the book and presents the cover to Soufflé – two kittens tumbling from the basket of yarns. “Here it is! And if you want more suggestions, I can send you to my friend’s way; he’s a vet in the local clinic.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He flips through a few pages and scans momentarily through some. He shuts the book and ponders with a quirk of lips. “Do you have a local vet school here?”

“They do offer courses in the community college.”

“Great!” Soufflé beams while walking backwards towards the counter. “Strange question, but you’re likely to to bump into familiar faces more than three times a week around here, right?”

Stiles is his dad’s son. It isn’t difficult to connect the dots that Soufflé here has someone in mind already, someone who may be Scott’s colleague once they graduated. Great for that someone, not so splendid for the rest of the world. Hmm, should he ask Scott to scout around? “Last I heard, the residences here are plummeting due to big city’s allure. But if they are staying around here, you’re guaranteed to meet up one way or another.”

Soufflé smiles with gaze adrift as Stiles registers his payment. Stiles likes to think he’s in the friend category when two can talk about sentiments, and his lack of filter for tact, of course, that makes the cut.

“Love at first sight?”

Soufflé stumbled, which is rather adorable than klutzy. “W-What? No! It’s not like that! She’s–I mean I don’t–NO. No. I don’t do…love.” He says with a finality that doesn’t invite for more elaboration. Thankfully Stiles doesn’t have to totter through for a change in topic when the bell chimes, though he did nearly combust in flame at the sight of Hottie again.

Doberman continues around the counter to slobber all over Stiles’ hand, but Hottie doesn’t come any closer. He’s in the full glory of beanie and aviator again, and despite the absence of leather, he’s still able to pull off Hot Biker mode. Tensed body and low guttural growl has Stiles’ heart jack rabbiting and something primal in him running for the hills. Soufflé’s eyes flash red amber before pursed lips dissolve into an amused smirk. With the book he salutes Stiles on his way out. “Thanks for your time.”

Stiles waves amicably from under the island with one free hand. “Hope you’ll have everything worked out soon.”

Hottie doesn’t budge from his spot until Soufflé is completely out of sight, literally. Then, within three steps, he crosses the shop towards Stiles and yanks him into firm chest before latching his nose to Stiles’ neck and like his dog, slobbers all over it. “Okay. This should be sexy, but all I’m feeling here is gross and wet.” Stiles wriggles in tight hold and has an empathetic connection with the rat trapped by a constrictor just then.

“Really, dude. I don’t even know your name and I let you chase away my customer through your presence alone. You know this is considered as bad touching, right? I can rain the whole sheriff department on you. But I won’t, because some parades aren’t meant to be shared. And speaking of rain, what’s with the shade? The sky’s been moody all day you don’t even have to wear sunscreen. And you should let go of me now, I have a reputation to maintain, dude. I don’t let anyone mark me just because I’m easy.”

Husky purr shoots straight down the spine and pools heat under his belly button. It’s a thing. “Don’t call me dude.”

Of all the words he jabbered.

Stiles leans forward and snickers into Hottie’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

It’s months later – or maybe just minutes, who cares – that Hottie finally deems appropriate to ease up coating Stiles in saliva. His hands remain clinging onto Stiles, and the brunette wonders what face Ariadne will wear when she comes in and sees them like this. Stiles wants to tell Hottie to prepare a camera, but was cut off.

“Poe needs to go to a dog park. Take us there.”

“What?” It’s an epic moment for Stiles’ ADHD addled brain to be able to froze for more than 0.01 second. “And stop judging me from behind the aviator. I’m impressed Poe hasn’t mangled you for wearing them.”

Hottie doesn’t do anything more. Maybe he’s even asleep behind the shades.

“Words, dude–”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Sourwolf.” A brow ticks up. Stiles doesn’t care. Much. “Does this mean you’re new in town and need a tour guide? I’ll take your silence as yes. Lucky for you, tomorrow is my off day. I’ll take my jeep and you can tail behind–”

“We go together. In my car.”

“That’s acceptable too. Kind of like kidnapping but at least you get my consent first. Bizarre, but I’m cool with it. I’m guessing you’re the type to rise with the sun, so call me an hour early before picking me up. Oh right, my number–”

Stiles meep and jumps on spot when a hand slides up his butt and retrieve his phone from the rear pocket. Some quick typing later Hottie’s phone serenades The Pink Panther theme, and his phone is back in the pocket. Hottie nuzzles his cheeks and neck, leaving pinprick rashes behind from his infuriating stubble before taking his leave.

Who knew Werewolf has bipolar issues too.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“I agreed on a date with Hottie.”

There are gimlet-eyed beads facing him before Fuzzbutt soars into the bedroom. Stiles doesn’t remove his eyes from the door where bashing and crashes and fluttering are currently commencing. Fuzzbutt flies back and drops a pepper spray can into his lap. Stiles stares at it as Fuzzbutt lands on his head and laughs.

“I can’t believe you found this. I thought I’d lost it somewhere under the dorm’s bed.” Stiles scratches Fuzzbutt behind his ears. “Dad wanted me to have it since I get into trouble like nobody’s business, but the space under the bed is a no-man land. It’s better to let go once you lost something there.” Stiles checks the date and snorts. “It’s expired. Thanks for your consideration though. Maybe this will do more than tickle a Werewolf’s nose.”

Fuzzbutt snores grizzly.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Stiles is waiting by the curb with cups of coffee in each hand. He has just finish typing to Danny about the keys’ location when a slick Camaro glides smoothly to a stop beside him.

“Huh.” Stiles gets into the car with little stumbling. It’s a record. “You do realize this just makes you look like you’re overcompensating for something. Here. I know caffeine metabolize too fast in Werewolf, but doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the taste.”

“Thank you.” Hottie takes a sip and moans in appreciation. Poe doesn’t mind to be used as distraction. “And you talk too much.”

“What–” Stiles is about to hurl a barrage of indignities at Hottie if he has yet to catch the humor dancing around Hottie’s mouth. Stiles huffs as he sinks deeper into the seat. “You’re the one to talk. What’s with the Phantom’s impression?” Hand gestures avidly at the aviator and Mets cap. “Are you sure you want to be out of your mirrors and be under the sun?”

“I have a photosensitive infection.”

“You. Infection.”

“Yes.” Stiles rolls his eyes and takes another mouthful of his raspberry cappuccino. “Turn left here. Go on straight until you’ve reached the roundabout, go into three o’clock. Then take a right and park. And I’m Stiles.”

Stiles isn’t sure if Hottie manages to catch any of that by the constipated face he has. Then. “Derek.”

Stiles nearly choked on coffee that has barely left his throat. “Uhhh…”

“My name. Derek.”

“Oh god. OH MY Fucking GOD.” Stiles drops his forehead, repeatedly, on the window with dull thuds. “This is karma. I killed a box of puppies and kittens in my last life and this is universe’s retribution.” Stiles stops bashing his head and whimpers, and Poe echoes along. “All I want is to stop the meddling, is that too much to ask…”

Derek must have been driving at illegal speed and deserves ten or more tickets for breaking every traffic law, and still somehow escape the deputies’ watchful eyes, because lo and behold, they’re right at the park’s parking lot the moment Stiles stops his rambling. Two hands grips his arms and turn him to face the driver, who has a concerned frown on his face now.

“Are you all right?”

Stiles sighs and slumps into the seat, the hands on him keep him from complete limp. “Yeah. Yeah. I just have an irrational resentment towards this name for the moment.”

Somehow, Derek is able to convey wounded pout through his frown. “Do you want to call me by another?”

“WHAT, no! No, I like to call you Derek. I think Derek is a good name, greater now, since it’s yours. It’s confusing my sanity, since part of me had enough with that name. I just–I have a long story, can we release Poe to terrorize the woodland creatures while we take a walk?”

Poe sprints around the fenced-border as soon as they’re behind closed gate, giving smaller breeds a scare or to chase along. Derek takes his hand and laces finger by finger as they stroll down the walking lane. “Is this about the ‘boyfriend’ you need Danny’s friend to fill in?”

“You remember?” Stiles’ astonished look is met by Derek’s nonchalant shrug. “That’s not stalker-ish. No. I refuse to go up the ladder and land into that spot, no matter what the dice tell me to. But yes. In short, I need the town to stop chucking me down the aisle because either they’re admirably concerned about me, or they have absolute no confidence in my love life. And thus in sheer moment of desperation and stupidity, I made up a boyfriend named Derek.”

In a longer version, Stiles tells him about the endless calls and horrifying dates and he gets why some of them remain single, and not because they’re aloof. Stiles mentions that he’s a devoted kind of lover – organizing a ten year plan with diagrams and graphs on a crush who doesn’t even notice him since kindergarten said a shitload – and he only let himself go wild during freshman year in college just to exterminate his pesky virginity his peers honed on. It’s not like he has it written on his forehead for the world to gawp.

“Waking up with a mother of headache and sore back under naked ass bodies sucks though. How is it that I had my first sex, orgy even, without recalling one orgasm? I feel sorry for myself.” Stiles gives burly hand a squeeze as growls next to his ear rise gradually octave by octave. “Stop terrorizing the Cotons. They don’t have a mean bone in them. Come on, let’s take a seat.”

Predictably, Stiles is tug into Derek’s lap on a bench that can fit three bodybuilding adults on steroid, because Derek is a possessive pup that doesn’t have the word ‘share’ in his dictionary. He plants his face into Stiles collarbones and takes deep, heavy breaths.

Stiles should have better sense of self-preservation.

He doesn’t. And it’s his own fault if he finds the Stockholm Syndrome chair and plops onto it.

“AND that is the end of my sad sex life. One night stand makes me squeamish with guilt, and my attention just refused to focus on casual relationships until graduation. I came back, opened this bookstore with the balance funds my mom left me, and then here you are. Wedging into my life without a care. You do remember my dad is a sheriff, right?”

Whatever Derek is about to reply is cut off by the shadow crawling towards them and stays to loom. It’s five-foot-petite Mrs. Evans who’s giving them a look. A look Stiles is contemplating on hating or dreading.

“Hi, Mrs. Evans. Taking Alice for a walk?”

“Yes.” She drops her gaze and back up again. “Is this your new friend, Stiles?”

Stiles blinks. “Yeeeesss. This iissss–”

“Tyler.” Was mumbled into his skin.

“Tyler. He’s one of my regular. He was having a panic attack and I’m the familiar scent he can anchor on.” Stiles’ grin is all teeth.

“Oh. Poor dear.” Mrs. Evans pats on the Were’s forearm. “How is Derek?”

“Derek is doing great. We still Skype every night, cooing sweet nothing to each other.”

“Of course you are.” The wrinkles on her forehead crease lightly. “You’re allowed to take a break, you know. Heavens know how open the relationships of youth these days.”

“Great advice, Mrs. Evans. I’ll keep that in mind.” Stiles waves her away to her dachshund, then wilts into Derek’s embrace. “Please tell me Derek is your real name.”

Derek nuzzles the back of his ear, a parody in nodding. “Tyler is my middle name.”

“Thank fuck.” Stiles pokes him on chiseled stomach. “So, you know about my morbid past. That gives me the right to know yours too, mister.”

Derek snorts and starts about his pack. About the home he grew up in and privacy is a myth since they can hear heartbeats two doors down, and sometimes even upper floors when they centered on it. Unless someone is to marry to another pack outside the country, they rarely live on separate roofs. Derek brings up his siblings, and he’s the middle son with no pressure on family obligations, but is not granted as much leniency as the younger ones. Sometimes it’s easy to lose yourself in a pack, when everyone is successful in life on way or another and every road you take is considered as a push from nepotism or favoritism.

But he’s doing well on his career, a job that he likes. And his happiness is all that matters to his pack in the end.

Poe is curling next to their tangled legs as the day gets warmer, energy drained from frolicking with his inferior brethren. Stiles snaps back into proper sitting position and stretches, stomach quivers when warm palm traces over exposed skin. “I like lunch now. Want to get something from Leslie’s?” There is something reluctant in Derek’s body language. “Or we can go back to my apartment and snuggle the rest of the day and find out who framed Roger Rabbit?”

Hell, Stiles would even commit every possible crime just to see Derek’s bedazzling smile.

They got the cheeseburger special from Leslie’s and Derek is introduced to Fuzzbutt. They only break their Old West Showdown by the time Stiles finishes half of the curly fries. With his cap and aviator taken off, Stiles sees the Were before him in new light, even those eyebrows. They have their own language. There is a universe in those eyes, and his hair is soft to the touch, despite sticking up in all directions.

“I thought you have photosensitive infection?”

“I don’t have it in here.”

“You know infection doesn’t work that way, right?”

They’re plastered from shoulders to toe on the worn couch, and a few inches deep in movies later, they were debating who is more suited to be Superman.

“I’m not saying you’re not cut for it, but you look tinier compared to Soufflé.” A brow arches for clarification. “You know, the guy you tried to intimidate with your mighty growl yesterday. Now Soufflé definitely have the height and mass for the Man from Krypton. And he doesn’t have a resting bitch face. Which is important since he’s the guy next door everyone wants to date and have as a son-in-law.”

“The Salamander?”

Stiles generously let the glare bounces off his head and march on. “Don’t need to be jealous. There are a lot of classic heroes that fits you too.”

“Like?”

Stiles is quiet for a little too long, which prompted Derek to poke and tickle him once he found the right spots. Stiles squirms and wriggles in the Were’s hold, hiccupping with laughter as he begs for mercy. “Okay. Okay! STOP. You can be Indiana Jones!”

“Him?”

“Yes, him. He’s sometimes an ass, you’re a full time ass. Perfect. But in order to stand at the same level as Harrison Ford, you’ll need a really good script with exceptional plotlines, or those haters out there won’t tolerate you for tainting their Indy.”

Derek shrugs and arranges them in a more comfortable position – face to face. “Can’t please everyone.”

Stiles brushes his thumbs over sharp jaw, bristles grazing his pads. “It’s all right. You’ll still get one admirer.”

Two noses brush, like curious kittens. “And how will this ‘admirer’ show me his adoration?”

“Is a kiss acceptable?”

Fingers curling at the nape of his neck bring Stiles forward for a slow, indulging kiss. Derek tilts two degree to the side, and their mouth slot together like key and lock. Stiles shudders at the hand running up his arm and down his side, eager for skin as it fumble the hem of his shirt. Tongue licks over his bottom lip, and Stiles’ mouth lax to let it in. Derek has two fingers inside his waistband, tugging him in–

When Poe decides he wants to join in the pile and leaps into their laps, instantly separating locked lips. Stiles has gone stunned for a second before laughter bubbles up through his lungs at the ludicrous situation as Poe licks him on his cheek, delighted at his audience.

“Get down,” Derek grits words through clenched teeth, eyes flashing gold in warning. Poe looks at him, then at Stiles, and bares his neck to Stiles. The young man’s laughter overlap Derek’s irritated growl.

“Don’t get angry at him. He’s lonely.” Stiles wraps his arms around Poe and gives his flank a good rub. “He feels abandoned and cold, staring up from the floor.”

“Next time I’m dumping you to Uncle Peter. He’ll stick to you like an emotionally-impaired barnacle.” Derek doesn’t join in with Stiles’ booming chortles, but at least his frown mellows out to dry smile. You’ll have to strain your eyes reaaally hard to see it.

“Next time then,” Stiles grins impishly behind Poe’s erect ears, and Derek has to kiss it off him. When the kiss last longer than just a few simple pecks, Fuzzbutt circles and dives, smacking directly into Stiles’ temple. “Owie…okay. I think they’re trying to tell us to slow it down.” Stiles plants a kiss beside the scowl, hoping to soften it a little before someone got paranoid and call the station. “No harm done, it’s only our first date. Nothing below the waist until we end our fifth date, right?”

Stiles sends Derek’s despondent groans away with his incandescent howls. The evening ends perfectly.

If not for two sets of prying eyes behind the shop’s door, gaze fixed without one blink. Stiles huffs and knocks at the space between them. His hot breath layers a mist over the glass, and with his finger he writes ‘WORK!’ backwards.

“You’re an adulterer, boss.” Ariadne tuts as she slips out at the cracks. “Shame on you.”

“‘Derek’ has not put a ring on me. I’m still a free man.”

“He looks familiar though,” Danny muses. “Or his back is. Like something I’d seen on Vogue.”

“Just his back?” Danny sends her a coy smirk. “You’re right, though. He has the back of a celebrity. Definitely paparazzi material.”

“Him?” Stiles tosses his thumb over a shoulder. “I thought every bodybuilder has the same outline.”

Danny and Ariadne give him side-glances as if they’re ashamed of associating with this cretin usually found under rocks, which, RUDE. Ariadne turns and pats Danny on his bicep. “Don’t blame him, Danny. He doesn’t keep up to the flow after the 90s.”

“I know.” Danny clamps her hand and they share a commiserating look. “We tried, Ari. We tried to rehabilitate him but it just won’t stick.”

They leave him with a sigh on the curb and Stiles wonders if he should just hire new helps instead.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Two days later a gaggle of new faces enters the shop. The Procession of Gods has yet to cease.

They have the same dark hair, and similarities around the eyes and cheeks. Family, no doubt. Siblings, or maybe cousins.

The woman with dark bronze ponytail comes forward with her son on her hip, her smile broad and unassuming, and Stiles can’t help but take a step back. The lines around her mouth deepen.

“Hi, I’m Laura!” She thrusts her free hand forward. Her son examines the situation and stretches his hand too.

“Hi, I’m Stiles.” He takes her hand, and then her son. “Nice meeting you.”

“Oh, I’m sure the pleasure is ours.” She takes a delicate sniff and looks at the ceiling. “You have a…fox?”

“A flying fox. My roommate, actually.”

“Ahh.”

Dancing eyes meet with bemused smile (more like grimace). Neither move until Laura’s son whines and kick his legs, wanting attention too. Laura coos and rocks him, even tries flashing her eyes, but her pup refuses to quiet down. Stiles leans on his elbows and display his most charming smile.

“Hi, what’s your name?”

The pup pouts and takes his time to ponder on the question. Finally, he says, “’aleb.”

“’aleb?” The pup nods. “Like chocolate?” The pup nods, much slower but firm, intending Stiles to understand the graveness behind his gesture. “Great! Want to share a cup with your mom? I make a mean chocolate, and we add marshmallow for free.”

‘aleb looks at his mother with a familiar frown (God, he should stop projecting Derek’s scowl on everyone else) and drops his chin.

“One chocolate coming right up!”

A hand catches his elbow in mid-turn, and Stiles’ other hand has to cartwheel in order for him to stay in balance. He barely gets two of his feet on ground when the hand yanks him forward, resulting in his pelvic bone colliding with the hardwood counter. Then a younger version of Laura shoves her face into his, a mean grin inches away from his face.

“Since you have so much faith in your chocolate, why don’t make us all one?” She taunts.

“Cora, play nice.” Laura chides.

Cora merely leans back and tosses her braids over her shoulder, her eyebrow arches with an haughty ‘Well?’. That last until another guy nudges her away with his elbow.

“Don’t decide for us all, asshole. I don’t even like chocolate.” The young man with an undercut and the rest of his artfully messy hair swept aside sneers and give Stiles a once over. “Adam. You know how to make ristretto?”

“Learnt it. Rarely make it though.”

Adam’s brows are strangely expressive (again, like someone he knew), and appraising Stiles like a bacteria under the microscope. “As long as I don’t choke on it, consider it passed.”

“Uh, thank you?” Stiles takes in the gazes centering on him. Is it possible to be intimidated by beautiful eyes? “Anything else?”

Somehow one of the cousins decides to ask her parents on the choice of drink she should bring home, resulting in Stiles tripping over himself making two dozen beverages for the rest of the pack, drinks flavored from coma-inducing sweet to stomach-coiling bitter. Stiles is never going to let Ariadne and Danny go to break and leaving him alone in the shop. Ever.

At least this family tips him well. The tip bottle is gag to the brim with bills.

Oh, and Adam says he got a regular from his ristretto. So, win.

Ariadne comes back from her lunch to find her boss sprawling on the floor, half-dead from the whimpers filling the silence. It’s not an uncommon sight for the employees or regular customers. The boss is bad with big crowds. He cries while handling the morning rush. Sometimes.

Ariadne pats him on the stomach and resumes her work.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Stiles waves jovially at Jenny as he slips past the counter. Other than Scott, the staffs in the animal clinic barely tolerate him. He wondered why once and asked Scott.

_“Why, Scott? I didn’t do anything wrong!”_

_“Well, you did. Remember the catastrophe where Mrs. Lingam’s lovebirds got eaten by Mr. Brown cat? And Sasha’s chinchilla got a chuck off Billy’s bulldog’s ear? Not to mention Mr. Henderson iguana impregnated Mr. Murphy’s. All because you volunteered to bring them food but you didn’t check the locks properly after feeding?”_

_“That was ONCE.”_

_“It happened just six months ago, Stiles.”_

ANYWAY.

Stiles stares at the examination rooms, his eyes a slit as he tries to connect with his best friend telepathically to know which room he’s in. Or maybe he’s just waiting until someone opens the door or page Dr. Deaton to browbeat him out with his composed smile. Again.

Luckily, the door that opened registers his favorite Werewolf. And his favorite Doberman.

“Poe!”

Stiles is instantly pounced on, and losing his center of gravity, sending both dog and human to the ground. Stiles is okay though, because he has Scott to help draw pains if necessary.

“You know him?” Scott asks, head tilted like an inquisitive puppy about a new toy as he crouches beside them.

“I know his owner too!” Stiles beams. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“I broke up with ‘Derek’ so I can date Poe’s owner. Neat, right?”

Scott’s face scrunches adorably, and Stiles can’t help wanting to pat his fluffy hair. “Your imaginary ‘Derek’?”

“Yep.”

“And Poe’s owner is named Derek too.”

“I know. Coincidences, man.”

“But I thought you mentioned…” Scott trails off, gives Stiles a look, and then his toothy wide smile. “Great for you Stiles. You have someone real to date with this time.”

“I know Scotty. I get someone else’s tongue and fingers for sexy time too!”

Someone harrumphs behind them. Three set of eyes rise up to Dr. Deaton’s genial smile. “If you boys are done, I need you to check on Ms. Hailey’s boa next, McCall.” He instructed and turns on his heels. Scott cringes at the thought of handling the reptile, but sighs and accepts his duty.

“Hey, is Poe done here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Can I bring him to Derek?”

Scott’s eyes widen with appall. “That’s not proper procedure, Stiles.”

“I know. But as long as the owner consents for his representative, it’s not a big problem right?” Brows lowered with hesitation. “Call him now. If Derek doesn’t want me to check his dog out, then I’ll leave empty handed. How about it?”

Having spent a lifetime with his friend determination, Scott sighs ruefully and heads to search for Derek’s number and makes the call. It’s a short conversation the moment Scott mentions Stiles, and ending his signature with a big flourish, Stiles leaves the clinic with Poe and a smug dance, much to his friend fond exasperation.

“Your Daddy said he’ll come to pick you up later back at mine apartment. So what should we do now?” Stiles says as they stroll down the street, people giving them wide berth not just because at the sight of a Doberman. They cover two streets with intermittent window shopping and snacks binging when they bump into a crowd. Or actually, it’s the squealing of teenage females that drew their attention towards the production set.

It seems the crews are on a break, since the fans are yodeling their love at the casts to their heart content. Even Poe got uncomfortable and whines in distress at the swell of high-pitches cooing. “Let’s get outta here before the surrounding glasses crack.” Stiles tugs on the leash is and is about to walk on the opposite direction when the appearance of one of the cast has his frozen on spot.

It’s Derek.

Derek’s an actor??!!!

“DEREK HALE, WE LOVE YOU!!!” The wave of screams crashes into Stiles and gets his brain and limbs back into motion.

With his back facing the crowd and exposing the tattoo at the axis of his shoulder blades, Derek stands still while a blonde woman dabs powder on his cheeks; sneezes when she applied to much force at his noses and growls at her cackles. The fans are swooning at the sidelines, and Stiles wants too, but he has answers to hunt for.

With the resolve of entering a strip club, Stiles marches into the shop and plants himself in front of Danny.

“Tell me everything there is to know about Derek Hale.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Talia Hale is the Hale pack’s Alpha and a member of the Titania Council – a committee set up in 1891 to protect and fight for the rights of supernatural community, educate human that not all supernatural are out to strip their skin from bones and steal their children, and represent supernatural cases in High Court. There is rumor that she’ll be elected as the chair person soon.

Peter Hale is the defense attorney for the homicide case of Yolanda Simonne, a woman brutally murdered and chopped up in her bedroom, and proved her husband innocence when all evidence pointed otherwise. The court case made national, since Yolanda Simonne is a human right activist dealing particularly with human trafficking, and her death sparked thousand controversies. In the end Peter was able to prove that it was her assistant that killed her, all because of the rumor that Yolanda has a portion savings from her black market dealings, and she wants in.

Peter cunning ruthlessness in court and out has earned him a surprisingly huge fan base, loving him for his villainy charisma.

David and Sebastian are twin and chefs, and an interview ignited the rivalry to see who could get the most Michelin star. It has been a joke to them ever since to see if the judges would give the star to the wrong brother.

Laura and her sister-in-law, Mila, are partners for their clothing company, designing clothes that are trendy yet affordable, especially for middle classes. The profit gained is straight funded to the environment campaign they organized for recycle items, especially clothing, jewelry and make-up products.

Despite the first impression, Cora and Adam manage their family wolf sanctuary together. Their videos on line record the mischief of wolf cubs and proud rehabilitated wolves. Showing the world that despite being cousins, wolves cannot be domesticated for they are apex predators, and apex predators have no master above them. Those wolves shouldn’t have to forget their instinct, are meant to run with the sky above them and soft earth below, not behind cages with limited spaces.

And Derek.

Derek Hale debuted as a teen killer in television series Criminal Minds, but his breakthrough in big screen co-staring alongside Tilda Swinton had earned him the awards for best supporting actor in both Emmy and Tony, while the movie was honored with all EGOT awards, including Best Actress, Best Original Screenplay and Original Score.

But before he gains the recognition for his skills, Derek was shadowed by the scandal with his manager, a hunter that captivated the heart of her prey, promised him sweet nothings while securing another step deeper to his pack, preparing to eliminate one of the Elder Packs since Dark Ages. It was Sebastian that found out about their relationship, and Peter ensured she won’t be under the sun as a free person as long as she lives for attempted murder, attempted arson and statutory rape.

The paparazzi are still hounding Derek for details. The public sees him as more than just a victim.

_Give us one thing, Hale! Just one word!_

_No need to be shy, how many positions have you tried?_

_With a body like that, I can’t wait to fall into her arms too!_

For the reason he falls in love with her the first place, for love to blind him from manipulation and predator. For his desperation for adult acknowledgement and his naivetés and his scam for fame.

_She can be your hot wife if you just wait for two more years!_

_You made up the news with your uncle, right? No publicity is too much for your family!_

“Stiles.”

Stiles’ breath hitches, he tries to swallow but his throat is dry and raw and he feels sticky and what is Derek doing here?

“Here. It’s water. Drink sip by sip or you’ll choke.”

Stiles blinks, more tears escape down his cheeks as cool water rehydrates his mouth and throat and body. The room is shrouded in darkness, the sun long sunk under the horizon. The laptop and street lights the only light source in the apartment.

“Oh god, I must look like a torchlight ghost.” Stiles’ voice rasps in realization.

Derek chuckles in defeat at the non sequitur respond. He closes the laptop with a click and bundles Stiles in his lap, rocking them gently. Poe and Fuzzbutt are missing from the den, Stiles figures they must be in the bedroom and thinks about them no more.

“You’re Derek Hale.” Stiles starts in between sobs. “You’re here, a main cast in the T.V. series adapted from your dad’s novel.”

“I am.”

“Will you ever tell me?”

“I do.”

“Are you–Is it because you’re afraid I’ll look at you in a different light? Is it because I’m not your fan that you find me…fresh?”

Lips brushes over the curve of his ear, hot exhales tickle his hair. “Only in my mind, when I can’t sleep at night. When I think too much and do too little and work myself into circles for no apparent reasons. I know you. I’ve met you. I should have trust you and myself more.”

Stiles sniffs noisily. “You should. I won’t worship you like Batman. You’ll always be second place for my affection.”

Breathy laughter shakes him while strong arms keep him from falling apart. Derek licks one tear-stained cheek and sweeps it with a peck. “That’s too bad. Since my wolf wants you as mate. You’ll always be number one for us.”

“I said affection, not love, silly.”

Derek dips in for a kiss, sweet and promising. Tongue dances not for dominance, but to savor the taste of the other, the taste of together. Stiles’ hands roam the Were’s pecs as Derek’s lips head south, nipping marks and soothing them again with kisses. Stiles’ breath draws short as fingers graze over pebbled nipple. Wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck, Stiles taps his nose with Derek’s.

“As much as I hate to stop this moment, bed needs to be in our agenda. Couch is good, but comfy bed offers space for more fun. Several, different, experimentally consented fun.”

Stiles gasps in delight as Derek slips his hand under his butt and lifts up with ease, ankles locking in reflex as Derek heads to the bedroom, stealing a quick kiss or two on the way there. Also to give Fuzzbutt enough time to herd Poe back out of the bedroom.

No one needs to witness Daddy and Mommy’s loving time.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Alpha Hale invites Stiles and his father for dinner on the weekend. At the manor at the edge of the Preserve.

Stiles and John arrives there in the cruiser, and are pounced on by human children and wolf pups alike the moment they shut the car door, the tray of orange brownies saved in the last second by Cora. Ten minutes later Derek comes and digs Stiles out, holding him away from the ground with a playful growl of ‘Mine’. Martha, Derek’s grandmother and previous alpha, growls for the children to let the sheriff up before they suffocate the poor man. Still, it’s only with Tristan (Derek’s dad) and Sam’s (Laura’s mate) help that John is able to stagger to his feet without tearing his clothes from tiny claws.

Then comes the herd of dogs. Luckily Nick (Derek’s nephew) is able to whistle them away within the first three minutes.

David and Sebastian stumble over each other while announcing the food they made for the buffet, plenty to feed the army and more. Stiles carts his dad away from the steaks, still the succulent slabs found their way to his plate (courtesy of those little anklebiters popping in and out from under the table). Derek brings Stiles a new plate whenever the one he’s eating from is close to empty, and Stiles had to feed him so his stomach has equal space for desserts.

Seb nearly has a coronary when David and Summer (Derek’s nine years old niece) starts a food fight and the rest of the adults join in. Derek steers John towards Peter, since no one wants to risk Peter’s wrath by splattering him in custard. The dogs have a feast with the showery food and confectionary.

Later, the wolves shift for four legs and scout the territory. London (Derek’s aunt) and a few other humans stay behind with John, while the rest jogs with the wolves. Derek’s wolf, with pelt as inky as the night sky, remains beside Stiles the whole time, only separating when his little siblings or cousins egging him for a chase. Stiles’ bright laughter rings around the trees when one clamps their jaw on Derek’s tail and refuses to let go.

The next morning finds Stiles asleep on his dad’s chest, sturdy heartbeats an age-old lullaby while Derek keeps him warm by spooning him from behind. Around him snuffles and snores fill the quiet den, while body heats keep the daybreak cold at bay. It’s part terrifying and part thrilling and a whole lot overwhelming for Stiles to be surrounded, since it always has been three Stilinskis holding the fort.

And then there are two.

And now.

Now Stiles can’t even remember who is who, and who belongs to whom, and it feels like coming back home.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

The Hale pack doesn’t stay for long – work and school and social obligations demanding their presence – and Derek stays until the filming for the second season completes, and then heads to Mississippi to start the shooting of his next movie (Chris Hemsworth as a villain, how intriguing).

The hot, explosive sex before Derek needs to be at the airport is out of this world, and so worth waiting another six months for an encore.

Not so worth it when Ariadne and Danny tease him daily that Stiles did date ‘Derek’, since the Were fits his description to the T.

(Huh, who’d guessed.)

With the crew and noteworthy actors and fans leaving this small town, everything is back to the way it was. Sometimes the neighbors still stick their noses into his pie, asking for ‘Derek’, but since the sheriff verified Stiles’ boyfriend through dinner and a chat in his office while polishing his M9, their concerns on Stiles’ impending death by manslaughter have lessen significantly.

Now, Stiles’ shop and apartment are quiet from incessant phone calls, and Stiles is able to spent a serene night listening to Cell Block Tango while demolishing maple syrup with Fuzzbutt–

A knock on the door.

–or not.

A man with sandy blonde hair stands on the other side of the door. He has a great smile, but the tightness around his eyes tells Stiles he isn’t here just to borrow sugar.

“Hi, can I come in?”

“Sorry. Sheriff's kid, stranger danger, soo no. Do I know you?”

“Actually we have a mutual friend that I need to pick up. Excuse me.” The man shoulders his way in, ignoring Stiles’ squawks as he treks towards Fuzzbutt and crosses bulging arms under military jacket. “You need to come home. Now.”

Fuzzbutt eyes narrow to slits as he continues to lick crumbs from the pains au chocolat.

“You said you needed time, you needed space, you needed to disappear and do your thing from an alternate door until crisis averted. Well, it is now. And I got the short straw to retrieve you, no, actually Tasha got it, I’m just doing you a favor by coming in first.”

Fuzzbutt scrubs his muzzle and fly to perch on the curtain rail.

“You should have done better if you don’t want us to find you. Directing Rhodey as your front stage puppet and keeping connections with Jarvis isn’t your best move, shell head.” Blonde Raven rubs a hand over exhausted face. “Look. I don’t know what happened, and I think it’s best if I don’t. But have you seen lover boy’s puppy face, staring out of the window, waiting for his friend to just fucking come home already?”

Fuzzbutt doesn’t sway. Raven looks about a twitch away from scaling the drape and drags the bat away by his teeth.

Stiles takes a step forward, drawing attention from both, but he hangs on one. “Fuzzbutt, remember about the mountain ash bat I won’t hesitate to use?”

Fuzzbutt lands not so gently on his crown and gives him an upside-down betrayed glare. Stiles is sure he has cross-eyed just to focus on the nose poking him.

“‘Man invented language to satisfy his deep need to complain’. I can tell you’re the eccentric guy with big gestures and lavish words, even when you don’t utter one when you’re with me. So go home and be that guy again. Rant until you’re out of breath, go to sleep, and begin again the next day. You’re not the kind to let your battles fizzle out in silence, right?”

Fuzzbutt snorts and bumps their noses. He looks at Raven, sighs, and flops towards his golden nest.

“Thanks, kid.” Raven raises a thumb and is out of the door as abruptly as he arrived. Stiles hears the trails of “You _let_ him name you Fuzzbutt? Wait ‘til Darcy hears this–” and the door slides back into lock.

Stiles leans on the door, taking in the used plate and half-empty jar of maple syrup, at the empty apartment with him as the only tenant, Send in the Clown wafting side to side.

Lips curl, Stiles wonders what next time will bring into this small town.


End file.
